The snow clotted on the ground like blood in a wound. From his vantage point halfway up Mount Atinos, Roland could see the smoke curling up from the chimneys of Wintersholm, crowded by a penumbra of evergreens on the southern edge of the valley. He picked up his wolf-skin cloak and fastened it around his broad shoulders, then he turned and pushed his boot into the sleeping form of Prince Carolus. Seeing him stir only slightly beneath his bear pelt, Roland drew back his foot and delivered a swift kick to the younger man’s ribs.

“Cur!” Carolus shouted, throwing back his blanket and struggling to his feet. “You are assaulting a prince of the realm. That is high treason, even for you!”

Roland smiled, a broad grin that showed all of his worn, yellowed teeth. “Daybreak was a half hour ago. The youngling has had enough of my compassion, royal or not.”

“You may be my father’s champion,” Carolus said, using a rocky outcrop for balance as he pulled himself up to a standing position, “but one day I’ll take my place on the throne, and where will you be then?”

Roland grunted and swung his battle axe over his shoulder. “Most likely, I will be cold in the earth.”

“Do not presume your soul will enter the Hall of the Ancients then.” Carolus’s his lithe form shivered in the bitter morning, his translucent skin betraying the delicate web of veins on his hands as he brushed his blonde hair from his face.

“Maggots will be my only reward, young princeling. I am sure of that. Now, get your pack together. We have much ground to cover.”

Roland took one last look over his shoulder at the smoke rising from Wintersholm. He thought about the people he had seen in the outer wards as they rode toward the gates. The victims of the sleeping plague - there had been so many of them, frost lighting on bodies piled high on wooden carts, more doomed souls sitting in doorways oblivious to the biting chill, the snowflakes falling in lolling mouths, stinging unresponsive eyes. He remembered the sounds of children crying, mothers weeping, husbands wailing – but worst of all were the vacant faces of the afflicted, the living-dead who could hear those same sounds and not be moved to any response at all. One by one, the people of his city were becoming statues.

“I ask again ‘champion’ – you are sure this path will take us to the Snow Mage?” Carolus’ nasal voice, not long deep in its maturity, pulled Roland back to the task at hand.

“Aye,” the older man grunted, and he shifted his girdle round his pressing middle. “Sure as an axe blade.”

“But you will still not let me see the map?”

Roland shook his head, kicked out the remains of the camp fire and strode through its ashes. “Time to go, lad.”

He could hear the boy muttering behind him as he pulled one furred boot after the other through the thickening snow. It was the coldest winter in a hundred years – so cold, the wolves were eating each other.

*****

It was a whole day’s journey to where they needed to be, Roland knew, up the increasingly treacherous slope of the mountain and into the stinging mouth of the blizzard. The silence between him and his young companion did not bother him, but he could sense how nervous it made Carolus. For four decades he had faced men on the field of battle, and he could smell anxiety like it was sour milk. It was one of the things that had kept him alive in those early years – the ability to know which battle he could win, which men he could fight and which he must bow to. Carolus’s father, King Glenalph, never gave off the scent his son was now reeking of – that was one of the reasons Roland had bowed to him for so long – at least, not until their last meeting, not until the ageing monarch had told Roland his plan. The recollection made a bolt of anger surge through his veins.

“What if the Snow Mage won’t help us?” Carolus, some way back from Roland, shouted through the banshee wind. “What if we are wasting our time, and our lives?”

Roland stopped, allowing the prince to gain ground. “That’s why you’re here, young master. The wizard will not listen to a grizzled old retainer, but a high-born – your silver tongue is a weapon, even if your sword arm is not.”

Carolus drew level. He was shivering even beneath his many layers: his leather armour, his sheep’s fleece, his bearskin cloak. “I have a weapon sharper than any sword, Roland – my mind.”

Roland laughed. “Your mind is indeed sharp, but I would always trust my weapon arm over my head. My muscles serve freely and give what they give out of instinct. Knowledge, my lord, always comes at a price.”

“In any case,” Carolus said. “I may not be the master swordsman, but I can shoot an arrow through a stag’s eye two hundred yards off.”

Roland laughed. “Did you never wonder why you won every royal archery contest you ever entered?”

Carolus’ shoulders dropped, his mouth slacked open as if Roland had hit him across the face. The champion felt a sudden lurch of shame, and reached out a gloved hand to touch the boy on the shoulder. “I jest. You marksmanship is known throughout the land There is none to equal you.”

The boy pulled his arm back and out of Roland’s grip. “My father will hear of this, make no mistake. You are my servant, champion, I expect fealty.”

“I promise you,” Roland said solemnly. “My very soul is the crown’s.”

He held the boy’s gaze, watching as those brittle blues darted around in microscopic movements. There was no doubting Roland’s words and, after a few moments, Carolus seemed satisfied of this.

“Lead on,” the boy said. “We are alike then, in at least one characteristic.”

*****

The days were short, and it was growing dark by the time they reached their destination – the unwelcoming slit in the rock that marked the entrance to the Snow Mage’s domain.

“The wizard lives in a cave?” Carolus said, as they approached.

“The best place for a magic user, prince,” Roland replied “A place where they can do no harm.”

The air was thin so high up on the mountain, and the valley behind them was shrouded in mist. Roland could feel each breath becoming harder to take; the build-up of lactic acid in his muscles made his legs ache with every step. Behind him, he could hear the prince’s laboured breathing. Looking around, he could see Carolus’s pale skin now an angry red. Such a delicate boy, more interested in playing his flute than practising his swordplay – a creature not built for adventures, not designed for hard living. Roland ran his hand through his straggly beard – the bristles were hard and frost-covered. Prince Carolus was no warrior, and kings who could not fight would not last long in this world. As he was pondering this, the prince’s boot slipped on a patch of ice and he fell, twisting his body round and landing shoulder first in the snow. He yelped like a much-younger boy. Roland dropped his pack and hurried down to help. The prince lay prone, the heavy snow beginning to slowly cover his form beneath its icy blanket. For just a moment, Roland wanted to scoop his mighty hands underneath the body of the child and lift him up, carry him back down the mountain and to his bed. But this was not his way – and he had been given a duty.

“Get up, my liege. We have further to go.”

Carolus groaned and lifted his head from the snow. His eyes were wet, whether with snow-melt or something else, Roland did not know. The champion sighed and held out his hand, but Carolus pushed himself to his knees, and then – with shaking legs – to his feet.

“I am aware of the importance of our mission,” he said, lifting his pack and hefting it onto his shoulder.

Pride – he was his father’s son in one way, at least.

The entrance to the cave was flanked by sculptures of two skeletons in full battle armour, visors up, holding out their gauntleted hands in a warning not to enter. There was also some kind of writing – in characters alien to Roland – carved into the lintel above the entrance.

“That script,” the prince pointed to the letters. “It’s Eldertongue.”

“Well. I imagine they’re asking us to wipe our feet. Come on,” Roland stepped into the darkness without another word.

“No,” Carolus said, his voice flat and quiet. “It’s a warning. That character there means ‘king’ or ‘lord’, and the one next to it – the one next to it is ‘death’.”

“Well, the Eldermen left these parts an age ago. Whatever they were warning us about has been and gone. The wizard lives here now.”

“Then he truly must not want visitors.” Carolus remained standing at the entrance, the edges of his feet grazing – but not crossing – the threshold.

“Nevertheless, we have a quest, young master.”

“I know.”

“The lives of everyone in our city – including your father, your sister – hang on us finding a cure to the sleeping plague. And the Snow Mage is the only man we know who may be able to help.”

Carolus nodded, and stepped into the darkness.

They lit torches and passed far enough into the passageway for the chill wind to be a distant call, like people speaking in hushed tones in an adjacent room. Then, as the passage began to widen, they decided to make camp. They ate the cold trail meats Roland had been saving for this last leg of the journey. The champion watched the prince chew delicately on the tough flesh while he ripped through it with his sharp canines. When they had finished, they unrolled their bedding and put out the torch. After a few moments in the darkness, Carolus said:

“Will we reach him tomorrow, then, the wizard?”

“We are tired,” Roland replied “And we must be alert before we venture any further.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“A warrior always expects trouble, my prince.”

“What if I cannot persuade him to help?”

Roland rolled over onto his side. He had not taken off his belt and he could feel his dagger, in its scabbard, pressed against his thigh.

“Roland?” Carolus said. “What if I cannot do it?”

“You will do your duty, prince,” Roland said. “And I will do mine.”

*****

Roland did not know for how many hours he had slept. It was as dark when he opened his eyes as it had been when he had closed them. He lit a torch and sat upright. Carolus was still sleeping, curled up tight into a ball beneath his bear pelt, his blonde hair fallen over his face. Roland sat watching him breath in and out, and he was reminded of his own sons – all three of them killed in battle – and how, when they were young, he used to watch them sleep and wonder about their dreams, wonder too what the world had in store for them. Blood, blood, and more blood, that’s all they had seen. Roland let the prince sleep until he was ready to wake of his own accord. Then they gathered their things and ventured deeper into the darkness.

A further twenty minutes in, the tunnel opened out into an enormous hall, carved into the centre of the mountain and held up at intervals by huge pillars of stone which stretched up to a vaulted roof. Bolts of daylight shot through the hall from shafts carved into the top of mountain, lighting the chamber in a sepulchral blue. Frost clung to every surface and, at the far end of the hall on a raised platform accessible by a tall staircase, a large block of ice stood like an altar. Roland watched his breath misting in the air as he entered the chamber. He extinguished his torch and instructed Carolus to do the same.

“This is where he lives, the Snow Mage?” the prince said.

“Not all men require the comforts of a warm hearth,” Roland said. He stepped further into the hall, looking to his left and to his right.

“There is no-one here.”

“Keep it low, to a whisper.” Roland began to creep around the edge of the hall, staying as close to the wall as possible, setting each foot down carefully. Carolus followed, mimicking his precision, until they were about halfway across - when he heard the prince curse and drop his pack, the gold and silver trinkets he had brought to appease the wizard ringing out like cymbals on the stone floor.

“This is hopeless,” he said. “There is no-one here.”

“Shhhh!” Roland hissed, ducking low as if he were avoiding a missile. “We must be quiet.”

“Or what?” exclaimed the prince. “We are not here to sneak up on the enchanter – we want his attention. We should be waving our hands, we should be blowing a trumpet. We should be calling out: SNOW MAGE, SNOW MAGE, THE PEOPLE OF WINTERSHOLM REQUEST YOUR SUCCOUR” – these last words he shouted, his hands cupped over his mouth.

“You see?” he said, smiling. “There is nobody here, Roland.”

A rumbling sound, like the beginnings of an avalanche, emanated from the back of the hall. The floor shook, and dust and ice began to be shaken down from the shafts in the ceiling; several large blocks crashed to the floor and shattered like fallen chandeliers. Roland grimaced. “Best nock an arrow, young master,” he said. As he pulled his battle axe out of its holster, a gigantic humanoid form loomed out of the darkness at the other end of the hall, almost scraping the ceiling of the chamber fifty feet above them.

He heard Carolus pulling a bolt out of his quiver, heard the arrow head knocking against the bow. Expert marksman or not – the boy’s nerves would be the end of him. “Get back to the passageway,” said Roland, “it can’t follow us in there.”

“What is it?”

“Some kind of golem – an enchanted guardian.”

With each step the golem took, the ground shook. The creature was carved out of the earth itself – it had legs and arms and a body like a man but its head was a mere ring of stone set on its broad shoulders. Within that ring was a hollow wherein glowed an evil red light – like the heart of a furnace.

“You have fought one of these before, champion?” said Carolus, as the creature lurched towards them and they backed away.

“Aye,” said Roland.

“And what was your winning strategy?”

“My strategy?” Roland spat. “My strategy was to run, young prince.” As he said this, the golem stopped and angled its great, featureless head down towards the intruders. An ominous stillness took the air.

“And what is your plan now, retainer?”

“Much the same,” said Roland. “Except this time, run faster.” Roland spun around – the prince was ducking in his shadow. He heard a keening whine from the direction of the golem, and he grabbed Carolus and pushed him back towards the cave entrance. Behind them, the air erupted in flames as a tunnel of fire shot out from the titan’s head. Roland could hear it singeing his wolf-skin cloak as they ran.

They ducked behind one of the great pillars. The ground shook beneath them as the golem advanced further into the chamber. Roland could feel his blood pounding in his ears and hear his breath short and ragged in his lungs. Carolus, however, seemed strangely calm, his anxiety dissipated.

“It would appear as if our wizard is not fond of guests,” he said.

“It would take an army to bring that thing down,” Roland replied, already feeling his face burn with shame at the failure of their quest. He knew he could not return empty-handed – and that meant he could not return at all.

“You must go back to Wintersholm, my prince,” he said. “Tell your father he must find another way.”

The ground stopped shaking and, a moment later, a column of fire seared the earth to the right of the pillar they were huddled against. Roland could feel the heat against his face. He began to prepare himself to meet his death. He put his hand on Carolus’s shoulder. “I will distract the creature for as long as I can. You must make a dash to the exit. Do not look back.”

Carolus seemed almost to be laughing – it was not the reaction Roland had expected. “I have come too far to go back now,” he said. “Give me your rope.”

Roland looked down at length of climbing rope tied to his belt, but he did not see its relevance. “We cannot win against a creature such as this.”

“Hand me your rope, vassal.” Carolus held out his hands and Roland, wrinkled brow furrowed further in confusion, did as he asked.

“I have a duty to protect you,” Roland said.

“You have a duty to follow orders,” Carolus replied. “Now,” he pointed at the far wall. “I want you to draw the creature’s attention in that direction – trying not to get yourself killed.”

“And what are you going to do?” asked Roland.

The ground started to shake again as the golem lumbered forward. Tiny pieces of ice and rock were shaken off the pillar and fell, dusting their heads in crystal fragments. Carolus began unfurling the rope. “When I call to you, I want you to try and lure the beast over here – between these two pillars.” He pointed at the next pillar along to their left. “I’ll be doing what I can to attract its attention too.”

“This is madness, my lord. There can be no victory here,” Roland said, still perplexed as to his prince’s plans.

“I am giving you an order, retainer. Now go!” The prince’s blue eyes shone with a steel Roland had not seen in them before, a hardness that reminded him, for the first time, of the king. He nodded and turned, stepping out of the shadow of the pillar and facing the golem –only yards away. The creature stopped its advance and turned its great, featureless head towards him. Roland lifted his axe in the air – it felt good to be holding the weapon in his hands even if he knew it was useless here. Then he let out an ululating war cry and dashed to his right, just as the air behind him erupted into flames. As he ran, he could hear the creature turning slowly to face him, and he hoped that he could buy Carolus enough time to do whatever it was he needed to do.

When he made it to another pillar he stopped and ducked his head around to see what the golem was doing – it was lumbering in his direction exactly as planned. He stepped out from the pillar again and hefted his axe in the air. “Over here,” he shouted at the creature, “follow me”, and he began to run to the next pillar along. As he was running, he heard Carolus call, ordering him to turn around and guide the creature back. He spun on his heels and ran towards where the prince had told him, narrowly avoiding being incinerated by another bolt of flame that burst out behind him and knocked him to his knees. Prone, he was prepared for the worst – but it didn’t come. He heard a whistling noise and, looking up, saw the prince was already drawing the golem’s attention by shooting arrows at the creature’s head. He was doing no damage, but he was succeeding in luring it towards him. It was only as the golem’s leg hit the rope – tied tight between the two pillars as a tripwire – and began to teeter and loses its balance, that Roland realised what Carolus had done. The prince was running backwards, towards the entrance passageway, as the golem tipped over and fell, crashing forwards onto the surface of the chamber and sending a great cloud of dust and ice billowing up.

Roland was still on his knees when the prince’s hand reached out from the swelling ice cloud and pulled him to his feet. Behind him, the red glow from the golem’s head faded out.

“Not bad,” Roland said, surveying the broken form of the giant as the dust cleared from its body.

“The intellect is a weapon too, my dear champion,” said Carolus, a wide grin splitting his mouth. “And it is sharper than any axe you may care to carry.”

Roland grunted and pointed at the icy altar deeper in the chamber. “We must head farther in.”

Their footsteps echoed through the cavern as they approached the steps, and the blue light from above began to turn a darker hue.

“You must take the lead now, my liege,” Roland said when they reached the staircase. “It is not for the likes of me to approach.”

The victor’s confidence of a moment before disappeared and Carolus looked like a small boy again – unworldly and in need of a strong hand to guide him. Roland could not keep his gaze. “I will be behind you,” he whispered. Carolus nodded and began climbing the steps. “Be careful now,” Roland said as they ascended. “The ice is thick here. It would be a long way to fall.”

They picked their way up the staircase. The higher they climbed, the more likely a fall would result in certain death. Roland had the peculiar sensation of feeling sweat dripping down his chest and arms and seeing his breath frosting in the air at the same time. Carolus seemed sure-footed, but Roland could see the prince’s hands shaking as he reached out to steady himself.

When they reached the top, they stepped out onto a small platform. The block of ice in front of them was illuminated by one large shaft of blue light coming down from a hole in the mountain above. Roland could feel an intense cold radiating in waves from the altar – like a furnace in negative.

“I know,” said Roland, hefting his belt up and gripping his dagger. There was, indeed, the dark form of a man encased within the ice – less of an altar now and more of a tomb.

Suddenly, everything around the platform disappeared into blackness – as if the daylight shining through the holes above had been cut off. Only the platform and the frozen bier remained in existence, and the chill in the air became deathly. A voice, like a fist knocking against a hollow wall, addressed them:

“I am Prince Carolus Boniface of the city of Wintersholm. I come to seek the help of the great wizard on behalf of my beleaguered kingdom.”

Roland tightened his grip on the pommel of his dagger. Carolus stood rigid, every nerve and muscle in his body taut. After a short pause, a dark laughter rang around the cavern. Carolus looked back at Roland, mouthed a question – “What should I do?” – but Roland had no answer. He started to pull his dagger free of its sheath, the metal shining blue in the subterranean light.

“You come to seek my aid, noble prince?”

“Yes,” Carolus said, his voice shaky and faltering. “The people of my father’s kingdom are being struck down with a terrible sickness – a plague wherein their bodies remain well but their minds decay, as if they are awake while sleeping, as if they are unconscious with their eyes wide to the world.”

“The sleeping sickness. I am aware of this malady.”

“Great wizard,” Carolus unshouldered his pack and brought out the gold treasures and jewel-encrusted trinkets they had brought with them. “My father the king is willing to pay any price to secure your assistance.”

More laughter – a dread sound that chilled Roland to the marrow.

“I have the answers that you seek prince of Wintersholm, but why do you assume your treasure will procure my assistance?”

“My father has authorised me to pay any price, great snow mage.”

“Do you even know whom you address?”

Carolus looked round again at his retainer, but Roland would not look at him. He nodded in the prince’s direction, urging him to persist.

“The great wizard of the ice, the snow mage who lives in this cave. Your name is unknown to me and for that I must apologise. Forgive my ignorance – my people are desperate and we believe only you can help us.”

“I am no wizard of the frosts, prince of men. Step closer to my prison and see from whom it is you petition for aid.”

Carolus stepped closer to the block of ice, and Roland did likewise. He could see the dark form within become a little clearer as he did so, as if the ice crystals in which the figure was encased had rearranged themselves for greater transparency to aid their seeing. There was no living man, no magic user, inside that frozen water, but a black-robed skeleton, crowned with an iron circlet and clutching a dark sceptre.

“You speak to the king of the dead, the emperor of the underworld, the Lich Lord.”

Carolus staggered back, almost falling, and drew his sword. Roland was behind him in an instant, holding him up and pressing his hand down to sheathe the blade.

“We are not here to fight.”

“But Roland, this is not the wizard.”

“No,” Roland whispered. He could see the prince trembling and hear his chattering teeth. “But he is the one we seek.”

“Many centuries have I passed in this prison of ice. I have the answers that you need –the cure for this sickness – but the price of my assistance is my freedom.”

“Roland,” Carolus hissed. “This cannot be what my father intended. We cannot release this creature from his captivity.”

“Shhh,” Roland whispered, and he held the prince close to his chest, as he remembered holding his youngest son the day he joined the royal cavalry. How strange it was he was only able to show such affection shortly before it would never be possible to do so again? He had known Carolus all his life, had watched him grow, had done his best to train him in the ways of the warrior-kings. He was like Roland’s fourth son and, despite their differences, he loved him. Yet there was only one way to free the Lich Lord from his tomb, only one way to melt the ice of his prison and save the people of Wintersholm from the sleeping plague – it was the only reason the king had sent his son to such a dark place. It had not for the vassal, Roland knew, to suggest the monarch may have volunteered to go in his son’s stead.

“Legend has it,” Roland said, “That the blood of the Eldermen runs in the veins of the kings of Wintersholm.” He felt Carolus stiffen, his hands start to push his champion away, but Roland already had his dagger in his hand, and before any further distance opened between them he had slid the blade deep into Carolus’ chest. Roland held the dagger in, feeling the shock ripple through the prince’s body, and guided Carolus over to the ice containing the Lich. He whispered that he was sorry as he laid the prince down on the bier, stroked the boy’s blonde hair and said it again as he watched those delicate blue eyes darting about in shock, as his limbs twitched and jolted in pain and he pleaded noiselessly for help.

“Only Elder blood can break the spell,” Roland said, and he pulled his dagger out and closed his eyes as the dark red blood pooled and spread out under the body of the prince. For the first time in his life, tears rolled down his cheeks. He could hear the ice beginning to melt.

*****

Halfway down Mount Atinos, Roland could see the verdant darkness of the Grunewald drawing closer to him. He longed to be off the mountain, to lose himself in the shade of the ancient pine forest, to be in a place where he could not see the sky. It was evening, and his fire was not lighting. Further south, the chimneys of Wintersholm sent pillars of smoke into the granite-grey skies. He gave up trying to light the fire and stood, picking up his pack and deciding he would keep walking for as long as the dwindling daylight would allow. The sooner he arrived back in Wintersholm, the more lives he would save. He unrolled the scroll the Lich Lord had given him and looked at the instructions. Not all the ingredients for the cure would be findable within the confines of the valley. Search parties would need to be sent in several directions, other kingdoms and domains would need to be trespassed and other rulers bargained with if all the necessary items were to be found. The body gives what it gives freely, Roland reminded himself, but knowledge always comes at a price.

The bell on the shop door rang as it opened. Vritin blast them, another one, and she was two days behind making charms she had already sold. Brenna kept her head down, no eye contact. Don't they have important things to shop for? Like food and clothing instead of pimple potions and dieting charms. She blamed her own work; she had made a powerful good luck charm. Now she hated the customers it drew into her shop.

"Excuse me. Are you the witch Brenna Gorsey?"

She melted from the low baritone voice, the words brushed up against her ears like silk. Satisfied with her work, she slid the magical viewer off of her forehead and saw the asymmetric bent hat of a wizard. "I'm Brenna. Need an enchantment? I can help you out. And since you're a brother in the arts, I can give you a discount."

He wasn't much taller than her, medium and kind of on the skinny side. Not the wiry skinny suggesting hidden strength. Just not a lot of meat on the bones. He dressed in plain woolens and expensive-looking riding boots. A practical man who put a lot of money on his feet.

"No. Thanks, though. I'm a Constable for the Order. We've had a complaint. You sold someone a good luck charm. Uhhh. Sorry, but I don't understand the problem. The owner said it works and it's dangerous."

He came here to make trouble. She owned the charm, so this must be lucky. The Order was a better buyer than any individual because they never gave up a magical object once they owned it. "I do have a piece that makes the owner lucky, and it's for sale."

His light brown eyebrows moved up toward the hat. "A real good luck charm can't exist. The magic needed to change the way the universe works requires unlimited energy."

"So if it's impossible, why are you here?"

"They said it's dangerous, so I'm here to take the charm."

"No, you can't do that. Come in. Shut the door." She got up from the workbench and stretched. "At best, I make a few coppers a day. Taking the charm without paying will ruin me."

Think fast, girl, and sell. She didn't want the good luck, but she couldn't toss it away. She wasn't giving it up for less than thirty-five gold. "It's right here in the shop. Looks very stylish. Try it on; I bet it'll look good on you. Come in, come in."

Two small steps took him into the shop. "You've packed a lot into this tiny shop. How long have you been open?"

"Four years now. My parents gave me a bit of money when I finished my training. I used it to open a shop. Can't say I like it much, but I don't know what else I should be doing as a witch."

"Hey, what are these? Stuffed animals?" He took another two steps into the shop, and peered into a case.

She waited. Everybody does this to her, no exceptions. She knew what she wanted to sell them, and they went looking all around the shop peering at things they didn't need and taking hours until she got them focused again. The shop didn't help. She had fit in whatever display cases she could steal or get cheap and added shelves to them. Few people ever walked past an open shelf full of magical oddments and curios.

"What's your name, friend? I don't know what to call you."

"Constable Manfredrick Fresnal."

"Can I call you Manni?"

He shook his head no.

In the small strip of floor space in between the selling area and her workshop, she had set up a cooking brazier and assorted chairs surrounding a scarred wooden table. She lit the oil lamp, put water on for tea and sat down to watch his progress. He made it to the next shelf. "Those're lady's charms. To enhance their natural beauty, of course. Aren't you here to buy the good luck charm?"

He turned away from the displays. "You're a lot younger than I expected. Sorry, back to business. Why did customers complain if it worked?"

"Manni, I'll tell you the story of the charm. Have a seat, this is the best chair. I'll get the tea."

While she ran around, he sat. Brenna said, "A couple of months ago, a nice young man came into the shop. He claimed he attracted the ladies, talked them into having wine in his bedroom. If you follow me. But before they got there, the cat would die or they'd come down with a mysterious illness. He wanted a love charm to make him more successful."

The wizard nodded his understanding. She slurped from her cup and added another two spoons of sugar. "Manni, to be honest with you, I rushed it and messed up the spell. I don't know what happened. But he brought it back three weeks later."

He put his hand up and she paused. "It took him three weeks to figure out it didn't work?"

"Other way around. Any woman he talked to went out to dinner or other stuff. And they said yes. His schedule got crowded. Before, he chased ten to get one in bed. With the charm, if he talked to ten, he'd get twelve in the sheets. Say a sister or a good friend came along."

"And he complained?" From the look on the wizard's face, he had never considered this possibility.

"The lover-boy was forced to make excuses. He started drinking. There wasn't enough time. Him turning down women?"

"It got worse. Women waited outside the doors of the lady friends he spent the night with. When he sat down in a restaurant, they stopped by to stuff underclothes in his pockets with their names written on. It was too much. Suicidal, right? So he brought back the good luck charm and made me give him a refund."

"Logic says it's a love charm, not luck. The strength of the love charm wasn't a good idea. I still need to take it, because of the complaint."

"You're obsessed with taking my charm."

"I'm fascinated with it. It's the sort of thing that will get the people higher up in the Order to notice me. I could get promoted and sit inside instead of trudging all over dealing with bad tempered wizards."

This proved he was hooked. She bustled over to the door and put up the wooden Closed sign. She needed to focus. "Then buy it; it'll be nice and legal, and Virtin knows the Order has piles of gold."

"Are you sure it's for good luck? I really need to be able to prove that to the Order."

"At the time I thought it was just a love piece, and the overactive kid had used up a lot of its power." She scratched her nose with the teaspoon. "So when a young woman came in asking for a potion to get her husband in the mood, this was the perfect person to sell it to. She didn't need a lot of magic. Come to think, why would a married woman try to get her own man in bed? It seems odd, somehow."

"I'm not married, but a lot of my friends are. I've been taught not to comment on those things." He sipped at his tea, and a surprised smile came over his face. "This is good, the the cinnamon and orange you've added to it perks up the other flavors. Most people don't treat me this nice. I mean, when I'm on a job as Constable I get threats, but no drinks. See, that's why I need to be promoted."

"It's nice you have plan. Most people don't know what they want, so they think they're lucky when they aren't. Remember the housewife? She's a young banker. Matters had been falling off in bed."

"And you're going to tell me it didn't work." He smiled and shook his head.

"These are all real people. I can give you their names and tell you how to find them."

"Sorry. It's the way you tell it."

She grinned back at him. He needed a little more time with her and the charm, and he would be offering her the money. "She bought the stupid thing. Her banking business took off, and her personal investments did too. Merchants offered her shares in cargos that couldn't lose money even if the ship sank. Soon they moved into a chateau, riding in a shiny black carriage with footmen and those silly feathered things on the horse's heads."

"What about her husband?"

"He still loved her, but he hated his life. She didn't want him working, so she told him to quit. He told her he was leaving. Shocked, she assumed the love charm hadn't worked. She made me take it back. Hells-spawned bankers. She got what she paid plus interest!"

"And then? Didn't she continue to make money?"

"Not as much. Two of the ships she invested in were forced to sell their cargos at a loss, four of the clients left. She went back to an average banker's income. And her husband stayed."

"Wasn't she happier at the end? She kept her husband."

"Happier, yes, but not lucky. There's a difference. See, a lot of people don't think about that stuff. The charm seems to latch on to what you want, not what is best for you. If the Order buys it, then you wizards can take it apart and see how it works."

Manni finished off his tea and put his hand over the cup when she lifted the pot to pour. "Why not just keep it?"

"I never go out anymore. I don't want to be busy, I want to be rich. The charm brings a lot of people into the shop, but I'm only making a couple of coppers off each one. It's worth much more. I can get thirty-five in gold for it, but it keeps coming back."

She went over and pulled the charm out of the cash box. He leaned forward in his chair as she held it up to show off the tasseled linen square embroidered with a heart done in silk thread. "This is it, the cause of so much trouble."

His eyes narrowed, and he studied her, as well as the charm. Brenna picked up the magic viewer she wore earlier and brought both over to the table. "See for yourself."

He fit the leather strap on his head, and the sheet of polished alabaster that had been enchanted to pick up magical energies fell into place. He peered at the charm and gasped. "I've never seen this color in an enchantment. And the way it swirls. It's unique."

"See, I told you."

"But it's not good luck. I need proof. I need something amazing to show them back at the Order."

"Right. And I've told you that every person, everyone who purchased this, brought it back. They got their money refunded. Hells, the banker got interest." She waved her hand at the charm. "As long as they're holding it, I don't have a choice. I give them the gold. They're lucky and I'm not."

Manni didn't react at once, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. "No shopkeeper wants lucky customers. I can't help laughing. You made an incredible charm, but it brings bad luck, because you can't sell it."

"You're wrong. I can sell it. Whenever I want." She reached over and grabbed the charm, holding it up in the air. "See, I own the luck. I've sold it a half dozen times. But once I sell it, I can't prevent it from coming back."

"Now you've convinced me. The Order will want this. How about twenty-five gold?"

"I think thirty is good. Let me write out a sales contract."

"Sales contract? For a charm?" Manni shook his head. "What happened to trust between wizards?"

"I'm a witch, we don't trust wizards."

"All I've got is twenty-five."

"Ahh...I'll take it. You have to sign this. The Order will agree to never return this charm for any reason until the end of time."

It felt too easy. She ran around the shop collecting red tissue paper to wrap it in and an attractive box.

"I'm not one of the council members, just a lower level wizard. They'll sign the contract at the next meeting."

"I can't wait that long, I need to get rid of this thing as soon as I can. It's ruining my life."

He pulled out a heavy leather coin bag. "Sell it to me. I have the twenty-five gold. And I'll bring the charm and the contract to the next meeting of the Order."

Her eyes followed the leather filled with gold as he put it down on the table. "So I can get my money right away. Sounds good."

When she grabbed the coin bag, she felt off-balance. This happened every time she sold the idiot thing. Two deep breaths left her oriented again. She handed the charm to its new owner.

"Thanks." He glanced at it and stuffed it into his leather bag that sat on the table. Manni blinked three times. "I read a review of the new play by ApWellen in the broad sheet this morning. It's got a funny name, The Duchess Rides a Cow. Come see it with me. I'll get us box seats."

Now she blinked. He didn't seem the type to ask a girl to a play without a lot of umms and ahhs. Why the sudden change? "Of course, that's a marvelous idea. Did you see his last play? Another odd title, Falling Down Wizards, but a great mix of comedy and social commentary."

"I did see it. In his new one the aristocrats get to be the fools."

It had been months since she talked with a male her age. "It's a great idea. Let's make a night of it and have dinner, too."

What did she say? The plan was to sell the charm and never see it again. Sure, he's kind and good looking, and she could listen to his voice all night. With the money she got today, she might do whatever she wanted. But she couldn't. She was going on a date with him, he owned the charm and she would do what it said.

The charm had fooled her into letting him buy it without the contract. It would come back, it always did. She'd be left sitting in the shop with no gold, too many customers and a good luck charm. Ready to start over. She wasn't going to do that again, not and stay sane.

Smiling, she got up, and as she stood she dropped the gold in front of him so it touched his hand. And her hands just happened to brush up against his bag. She grabbed it and ran to the brazier, fumbling inside as she went. She had often heard money couldn't make her happy. So far good luck prevented her from testing the idea. Being depressed hadn't made her rich either. And she knew of only one way out. She must end it all.

After a last look at her greatest achievement as a witch, she gave a quick jerk of her hand and tossed the good luck charm into the fire.

Manni jumped up from the table and ran over. He cursed at his burnt fingers as he grabbed the flame-covered charm. Tossing it onto the floor, he stomped on it, leaving black soot marks and crushing the charred remains that used to be worth enough for her to buy two houses.

"What are you doing?" Manni panted after his quick sprint.

"The charm made me miserable, and I couldn't make it stop. So I killed it."

"You can't make another one?"

She shook her head.

"Are you sure? How hard have you tried?"

"I can't remember all of the words I used in the spell. Maybe I mispronounced one. Who knows? But the longer I worked at it, the less enthusiastic I became. I'd rather give this up and become a ladies maid."

"Are you crazy? I need this charm. I don't want to be walking in the rain the rest of my life. I need to be promoted." The corner's of Manni's mouth turned down, and he sniffed.

Brenna feared he might cry right in front of her. Yuck. He needed comforting, so she reached out and took his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry. I truly am. I feel I did you a favor, too. Think. Were you unhappy with your life before you came into the shop?"

"Well, no. I mean, I did daydream about a better job, but I never felt the pressure to change until today."

"The good luck charm gave you bad advice. Wait a few days."

"I still think you're a nice person, that's not going to change." He gave her hands a squeeze and slipped away.

"Thanks. A sincere thanks. All that effort to sell the charm distracted me. I needed you here. To show me how quickly it turned against me," Brenna said.

"Like in one of ApWellen's plays?"

"And that's another thing the charm did. Don't feel you're obligated to take me to the play. I'll understand."

"You're wrong. The enchantment worked. I was willing to give you a lot more of the Order's gold than I should have. It felt right then, but doesn't now. Uuuhh." He scratched his head. "It's different. Ummm. I want to go to the play with you. Because you're you." His ears darkened. "If you don't mind. You'll have a good time, and I promise not to talk too much."

What a weak invitation. But cute. And complimentary, she hadn't heard much flattery in the last three months.

"Stop by tomorrow at five. I'll buy dinner. Business has been good, and I need to celebrate."

"Thanks. I need to go get tickets. And a carriage." He smiled. "Uh, bye. I'll see you tomorrow at five."

He left, and she knew he would be back. She didn't get the money that she worked so hard for, and the charm had been destroyed. The guy stayed, for now. She gave it three weeks. They'd go out and have some fun doing things together, but he wasn't what she was looking for.

She still wanted the money. She would just have to sell potions and charms a few coppers at a time to get it.

Ray Krebs loves reading and writing, which he pursues after battling in the sales and marketing arenas. This is his first publication, and he plans more soon. He is inspired by real history and mythology. You can find him at www.raykrebs.com.

Editor

Curtis Ellett is a frustrated fantasy writer and a founding member of the 196 Southshore Writers' Group. He has lived on three continents, studied archaeology and worked as a newspaper ad designer and a bookseller. He now gets paid to write. Find him on Twitter @CurtisEllett.